The shower in the guest bathroom runs hot enough to make my skin turn pink. I stand under the spray longer than necessary, letting the heat work out some of the soreness from yesterday’s fight. Bruises have bloomed across my ribs and arms in shades of purple and yellow, evidence of how close I came to being taken.
When I finally emerge, wrapped in a towel I found in the linen closet, I realize I have exactly one set of clothes. The ones I was wearing yesterday, now rumpled and dirty and smelling faintly of fear-sweat and blood.
Great.
I pull them on anyway because the alternative is walking out there in a towel, and I’d rather eat glass.
The hallway is quiet as I make my way toward the main living area. Early morning sun streams through windows, painting everything in warm golden tones that make the house look almost cozy despite the clutter.
I find Reeyan exactly where I expect him—surrounded by books.
The dining table has disappeared under stacks of volumes in various states of decay. Some look ancient, their leather bindings cracked and faded. Others are newer but still clearly old, pages yellowed with age. Maps are spread across one end of the table, weighed down with coffee mugs and what looks like a paperweight made from a chunk of Amanzite.
Reeyan sits in the middle of the chaos, bent over his worn journal as he scribbles notes. His hair sticks up in more directions than yesterday, if that’s even possible. Dark circles under his eyes suggest he didn’t sleep much, and the empty coffee mug beside him has a ring of dried liquid around the rim.
He hasn’t noticed me yet. The man is too absorbed in whatever he’s reading to register my presence.
I take the opportunity to study him without those intense green eyes tracking my every movement. He’s changed clothes since last night—clean jeans and a dark blue shirt that fits him well enough to be distracting. The pendant around his neck glints in the morning sun, with Amanzite catching and reflecting the rays.
The handwriting on the pages is dense and small, cramming as much information as possible into limited space. Every few seconds, he flips back to a previous page to cross-reference something, then returns to his current notes.
“Are you going to stand there all morning, or are you going to help?”
I startle. He still hasn’t looked up from his journal.
“How did you know I was here?”
“Your heartbeat changed when you entered the room. And you smell like my soap.” He finally glances at me, and something in his expression makes my stomach flip. “Cedar and pine. Good choice.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “It was the only option in the bathroom.”
“I wasn’t complaining.” He gestures to the chair beside him. “Come look at this. I found something.”
I should stay where I am. Should maintain the distance between us and make it clear I’m only here under duress. But curiosity wins out over pride, and I find myself crossing the room to peer over his shoulder at the book he’s examining.
The text is old, written in a formal style that marks it as at least two centuries old. The page he’s focused on contains a passage about Llewelyn pack traditions.
“What am I looking at?”
“Historical records from the Ambersky archives. They kept detailed documentation of all pack activities in the region, including observations about neighboring territories.” He taps a specific paragraph. “This entry is from 1724. Read this section.”
I lean closer, squinting at the faded ink. “The Llewelyn females have undergone a remarkable transformation in recent memory. Where once they were known for passion and fierce emotional bonds, they have now adopted a reserve that borders on coldness. Their new matriarch speaks of strength through independence and the necessity of emotional control.Many attribute this change to cultural evolution, but some among our elders whisper of darker explanations.”
My skin prickles. “Darker explanations.”
“Keep reading.” Reeyan flips to a marked page in another volume. “This is from the Hysopp Coven’s records, dated 1721. Three years earlier.”
The messy handwriting on this page is harder to decipher, but I manage. “A binding was commissioned by parties unknown. The nature of the work remains classified, but the magical signature suggests emotional suppression on a scale rarely attempted. Payment was substantial. The coven’s leadership debated the ethics of such work but ultimately accepted the commission. May the gods forgive us for what we have wrought.”
The room tilts, and I have to grip the edge of the table to steady myself.
“You found evidence of a curse,” I whisper. “It’s real. What I saw was real.”
“It appears so.” Reeyan stands and moves to the map spread across the other end of the table. “Something happened around 1721 that changed Llewelyn fundamentally. A magical working commissioned by unknown parties, executed by the Hysopp Coven, that resulted in emotional suppression affecting an entire pack.”
“But why?” I follow him to the map, my mind racing. “Who would do this? And more importantly, why would my ancestors agree to it?”
“That’s what we need to figure out.” He points to several marked locations on the map. “There are two potential sources for more information. One is Isla Moonwhisper, your pack’selder and keeper of oral histories. If anyone knows the truth about what happened three hundred years ago, it’s her.”
